Chapter 95: Chapter 95: Lifeline
The embassy reeked of gold and deceit. Incense burned in shallow dishes along the marble walls, struggling to hide the smell of too many perfumes and too much power. The ceilings glittered with imported glass, everything too ornate, as if Rohan’s wealth could disguise its rot.
Dax crossed the hall in silence, each step measured, his presence enough to make servants flatten themselves against the walls. The moment the doors to his private suite closed behind him, the mask cracked.
He ripped the gold-threaded shawl from his shoulders and threw it over the nearest armchair. The heavy fabric slid down the back, pooling like spilled sunlight on the floor. His jacket followed, dark, immaculate, and now wrinkled beyond redemption, landing on top of it.
"Killian," he said, voice low, roughened by the days he’d gone without sleep.
The butler stepped in quietly, half-shadowed by the flickering embassy lights. "Already handled the outer guard rotation, Your Majesty. The King’s men won’t bother us tonight."
"Good."
At the far table, Tyler, ever efficient, ever silent, was already sorting the stack of files for the next day. Reports, proposals, and diplomatic traps disguised as trade agreements. He moved with mechanical precision, eyes hollow from lack of rest.
"Tyler."
"Sir?"
"Tonight’ rest," Dax said without looking at him. "Varlen can wait; I’m not going to entertain his delusions anymore."
Tyler froze mid-motion, one gloved hand hovering over a sealed folder. "Yes, Your Majesty," he said quietly, relief slipping through his composure for a second before he bowed and started collecting the papers.
Dax’s gaze drifted toward the wide window at the end of the chamber. The embassy gardens shimmered under the moonlight. Rohan’s capital always looked like it was trying to convince itself of its own importance.
"Killian," he murmured.
The butler straightened. "Sir?"
"Triple the encryption on our outbound lines. Nothing leaves this building unless it comes through you or Tyler. I want a shadow team watching the Rohan security hub as well. If they sniff near my personal channels again, I’ll take it as an act of war."
"Understood," Killian said, already moving to relay the orders.
He hadn’t slept. Not once, not since they’d crossed the Rohan border three days ago. Every minute had been a new variation of provocation, endless banquets, false smiles, and veiled threats. And this morning’s stunt had nearly ended in blood.
King Varlen of Rohan had greeted him with the oily cheer of a man convinced that wealth was charm. He’d spoken of "future alliances" and of "strengthening bonds between nations," and then, like it was nothing, presented one of his daughters. Fourteen, wide-eyed, and trembling under layers of silk, not omega and most importantly, Dax could be her father. He was thirty three for fuck’s sake.
Dax’s temper had fractured on the word marriage.
For a moment, the room had gone too quiet, his pheromones curling sharp and cold in the air, the taste of metal on every tongue. One more insult, one more smirk from Varlen, and there would’ve been a massacre to explain.
Dax let the image of the girl hang like a hot coal in his chest, soft, terrified, and absurdly out of place in her ribbons and silk. He could still feel the change in the room when Varlen offered her up: a tangible drop in the air, a tightening that ran under every polite smile. He had called himself a civilized man for years; tonight that civility had been paper-thin.
He poured himself a glass of water from the carafe on the table and drank it, his golden cufflinks glinting in the warm light of the chandelier.
His temper had frayed to a thread by the second day, and tonight it was close to snapping, until his comm had vibrated.
The faintest pulse of a private notification, buried under layers of diplomatic encryption.
He shouldn’t have checked it. He never checked it in public. But the hall had been suffocating, his patience unraveling with every fake smile and perfumed bow.
Then he saw the sender.
Christopher Malek.
The name lit up the screen like a spark in a powder room.
Dax had meant to ignore it. He should have ignored it. But exhaustion had eroded even his discipline. The hum of political chatter around him had faded to a dull static as his thumb swiped the message open.
’Do you not have object permanence? Or you don’t care about your hostage?’
For a heartbeat, Dax forgot where he was. The words were so sharp, so irreverent, that the breath left him in something dangerously close to laughter. He bit it back, teeth catching on the inside of his cheek.
No one noticed, or at least, no one dared react, but the shift in his energy was enough to still the table. Rohan’s king was still talking, his voice slick with self-importance, oblivious to the monster he’d nearly woken.
’Object permanence.’ Gods. That was what stopped him from upending the table and ending the discussion in blood.
He hadn’t replied. He couldn’t. Every transmission was being mirrored by Rohan’s intelligence bureau, and one careless signal would start rumors faster than any army could stop them. So he read the message again, slowly, until it cooled the anger burning behind his ribs.
Later that night, somewhere between another toast to "mutual prosperity" and a speech about "long-term cooperation," another message appeared.
’Blink twice if you’ve been eaten by Rohan’s parliament.’
He almost smiled. It startled him so badly that the aide next to him dropped a pen. Killian, standing at his back as always, tilted his head in the smallest movement of curiosity.
Dax said nothing. He kept his hands folded and listened to Varlen drone on about tariffs while, internally, his mind circled those words like a lifeline.
That ridiculous, infuriating humor had managed to cut through the stench of perfume and politics. Chris had no idea that his jokes had stopped an international scandal.
Tyler had assumed he was processing an insult. Only Dax knew the truth, that an omega sitting miles away had just saved the King of Saha from an international incident.
He’d wanted to reply then, to send something reckless, something personal. But Rohan’s security tracked every piece of data. If he opened a private link, it wouldn’t take long for someone to notice. And Dax had no intention of giving these jackals a weapon.
Now, finally, behind locked doors, he switched to the safer line. The one scrubbed of personal encryption, bland enough to pass through filters unnoticed.
He typed:
’Sorry for no contact. Negotiations got hectic. I’ll call tonight.’
He read it twice before sending the most impersonal, controlled thing he’d ever written. The kind of message that could survive political scrutiny.
When it was done, he sat back in his chair, breathing through the tension that hadn’t yet left him.
His phone vibrated with a new message.
’Fine. You win. Negotiations, diplomacy, whatever it is. Just letting you know, Rowan made me eat an actual vegetable today. I hope you’re proud of your hostage’s survival progress.’
The faintest smile tugged at Dax’s mouth, small and dangerous. He leaned back against the edge of the desk, the gold lamplight cutting along the sharp lines of his face.
"You’re insufferable," he murmured, though the words came out almost fond.
He reread the message twice, three times. Each time, his chest eased a fraction more.
He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because the moment he did, the game would end.
The moment Chris believed the line was dead, he’d keep using it, unfiltered, honest, and infuriatingly human. And Dax... Dax needed that. Needed him.
He sat there a while longer, staring at the faint reflection of his own eyes in the screen, violet burning gold at the edges under the dim light.
Finally, he murmured to the empty room, the words a ghost between his teeth.
"You have no idea what you’re keeping me from doing, little one."